It’s a Tuesday night. 6pm. I’m sitting at a barroom that faces the street and the cars are rushing by me, all a mess of headlights and motors and cherry-red stop clues blurring in the wind. I can see an airplane taking off above my thought. I can distantly sounds the music from a restaurant across the street. I’m warm in my woolen sweater, but shivering at the same era. My brew flavors like grapefruit and I’m tipsier than I proposed.
I’m sitting there “ve been thinking about” life, about the mess of it all, about the beautiful and the unknown, and all the ways we’re constantly trying to find our acces in the craziness.
And I feel, strangely, at peace.
Because for the first time in so long, I’ve realized that it’s okay to not know everything. It’s okay to be confused. It’s okay to be dizzy and unsure.
It’s okay to merely exist, here, in this present moment. Acknowledging that not everything will make sense , not everything will work out , not everything will feel splendid and glad, but it will all be okay.
I didn’t always believe this. I recollect the ache of my soul just a few years ago, so heavy and pressing in my chest. I remember mornings, waking up to the emptiness, the hollowness of being without someone I cared for. I recollect how it felt to lose everything I remembered I knew. Everything I contemplated I adored, and desired me in return.
Damn, life can be so hard sometimes.
The other date, a girl messaged me. A stranger, professing that she read my words and felt connected. She read my words and felt like her soul was in rhythm with excavation, hurting just the same path. She told me she was submerge in the anguish of losing an ex.
And I couldn’t quite grouped together the words I wanted to say–to tell her that she’d be okay. She’d be just fine. One epoch, she’d let go and find prosperity. Even without him.
As I wrote her a content, I thought of myself. My stubbornness. My inability to believe in any consolation outside of what I’d suffered. I thought of how you are able tell me a million beautiful situations while I was grieving, but I wouldn’t have believed a single one of them until I could feel them in my own bones–and( more likely) neither would she.
Until we feel that freedom. Until we breathe in fresh air without thinking of them firstly, and realize that is how it feels to finally move on, to give them move. And damn, what a beautiful feeling that is.
I’m sitting in a rail. I’m breathing chilly Southern California air. I’m thinking about what it means to finally release all the pressure that’s invariably weighing on your chest. Of how it feels to finally stop trying to be the master of everything around you, because all we can really change is our own life–and not even that–our next step.
I’m watching the headlights, listening to the horns, experiencing, out of the corner of my see, clangs narrowly scaped at this four-way stop mansion. And it’s crazy the fragility of our reality.
I’m sitting at this saloon, listening to music, to voices, to steps of tires on asphalt. And I’m thinking of all the things I care I could say to this daughter who messaged me–that life will bend and burst, and just when you rebuild, it will deteriorate beneath you again. That I know how it feels to not know what the hell you’re supposed to do now, but you exactly keep going. Damn it, you exactly keep going.
I wish I could tell her that I’m sorry. That the throb from a lost buff never certainly “re going away”, you simply learn who you are without them. And how that version of yourself is more beautiful than you ever were them.
I wish I could tell her that she will be alright. That for a while, she’ll wake up with a sour flavor in her lip, but after duration, she’ll shrug on a sweatshirt and look at her thought without imagining his hands on her neck. She’ll want to kiss another’s cheeks without thinking of him. She’ll suddenly be startled at the lane she’s moved on–absentmindedly, unconsciously.
Remembering how it is to be, without the subtitle of.
And just like in everything, every ebbing and swell of this life, she will be alright. She will find her practice again. She will detect hope and new beginnings and fall into those freely, freely, beautifully.
She will survive.
And so will we.